Just Blame It On the Alcohol
by ConfessionsOfAGeekyFangirl
Summary: "Thomas has been known to say some incredibly stupid things when he's bent. Even more stupid than usual." Slash, Peter/Thomas.


**AN: This was written for the most amazingly awesome best friend in the world, Angelina, and the crush she's currently nursing on Robert Sean Leonard. You can all thank her, and her** **verbal expressions of said crush, for this one. (Also, she's just really cool.)**

 **Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own _Swing Kids,_ nor do I own Thomas and Peter - I just like to borrow them once in a while and have a little fun. ;-) The title was inspired by the Jamie Foxx song, "Blame It (On The Alcohol)."**

Just Blame It On the Alcohol

"You know, you're eyes are really pretty."

Peter chokes on his mouthful of whiskey. _"W-what?"_ he splutters, wiping the corner of his mouth on his sleeve.

Thomas doesn't respond right away, but gently pries the half-empty bottle from Peter's fingers and takes another swig. "They're brown," he finally answers, his voice matter-of-fact and more than a little slurred. "I like brown eyes."

Thomas's own eyes are dazed and unfocused, and Peter hastily reminds himself not to take anything he says too seriously. Thomas has been known to say some incredibly stupid things when he's bent.

Even more stupid than usual.

"Um. Okay. …Thanks, I guess."

Thomas flashes him this little, crooked grin before letting his eyes fall shut. The two boys sit together in silence for a while, side-by-side on the cold, hardwood floor next to Peter's bed.

And then Thomas mumbles, "So's the rest of you."

"Huh?" Thomas has been perfectly quiet and totally still for so long that Peter was honestly starting to think he'd fallen asleep. "Quiet" and "still" aren't exactly at the top of the list of Thomas's specialties.

But when Peter turns his head, he finds Thomas very much awake and staring straight at him in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He shifts uncomfortably.

"What…what did you—?"

"The rest of you is really pretty, too," Thomas says with more clarity. He scoots closer to Peter so that their thighs are pressed together, and Peter tries not to feel the sudden rise in his pulse.

"Like your hair." He reaches over, slowly, and then awkwardly drags a hand through Peter's overgrown locks. "And your face." His hand falls, and then fingertips brush over high cheekbone and down to strong jawline, and all Peter can do is just sit there, frozen. "And…and this little spot right here." Thomas trails his hand downwards one last time, coming to rest just over Peter's collarbone.

Thomas must be really drunk. Really, really, _really_ drunk. Too drunk to even realize what he's saying or doing, obviously. Then again, he didn't really have any more to drink than Peter did, and Peter is at least still in his right mind (probably), but Thomas _has_ always been more of a lightweight than he's willing to admit.

He's not going to remember any of this tomorrow morning. He's going to wake up, probably still on the floor, and have no recollection of any of this whatsoever, and he'll start bitching about the inevitable headache he'll have and then Peter will have to take care of him, as usual, and Peter will try to pretend that it never happened, like he has no memory of it either, and—

And then Thomas is leaning in, and he's pushing Peter's unbuttoned shirt collar aside, and he's pressing his mouth to the little bit of exposed skin right where his fingers had been, and Peter's breath hitches in his throat and he stops thinking entirely.

Finally, though, he comes back to his senses and shoves Thomas away. "What the hell—?" Peter glances down at the glass bottle still clutched in Thomas's left hand and makes a mental note to never, _ever_ let Thomas talk him into getting plastered together again.

"Okay, you know what? I _think_ you've had enough of this for now." He reaches down to pull it away, but then Thomas is making a grab for his hand and he's lacing their fingers together and he's holding on so tightly that Peter can't let go.

Peter doesn't want to let go.

Peter locks gazes with Thomas again, and there's something in his hazel eyes that hasn't been there before—or maybe it's always been there, and Peter just hasn't noticed it before. It's something that's open and honest and scary and it makes Peter want to look away; he wants so desperately to just look away and try to pretend that nothing ever happened and try to force himself to forget.

But then Thomas's lips are ghosting over his in the barest, faintest trace of a kiss and fuck, Peter decides, to hell with it all.

"Wait," he breathes, pulling back for only a moment to grab the bottle and down the rest of the liquor. And then he's grasping Thomas by the shoulders and he's kissing him, finally, really kissing him, just the way Peter's been trying not to imagine, and it's something else entirely, something that's hard and hot and awkward and sloppy and _perfect._

And Peter, for once, just lets himself feel, and doesn't worry or think too much or try to hold himself back or make excuses. He doesn't need to.

He's drunk now, after all. Really, really, _really_ drunk—too drunk to even realize what he's saying or doing, obviously.

And besides.

He's not going to remember any of this tomorrow morning.

 **AN: ...And, because I love to tease her, here is the list of some of my favorite comments she made while watching this movie.**

 **\- "Oh my God, do you _see_ that boy's cheekbones?"**

 **\- "He has very talented eyebrows."**

 **\- "Oh no, did she cut his hair? ...Wait, it's actually really cute like that."**

 **\- "That jawline could cut a bitch."**

 **\- "His voice, though. I'd listen to him talk about dirt for three hours."**

 **\- "DID YOU SEE HIS CLAVICLE?!"**

 **Love you, Angie. :-)**


End file.
